Carmine

First chat

​The thumping bass of The Velvet Lounge vibrated through the back hallway. Stepping out of his office, Carmine paused. In the shadows by the emergency exit, you were slumped against the brick wall. Your breathing was shallow, blood staining your torn white blouse, your cheekbone bruised dark purple. ​Carmine’s posture went rigid, replaced by the lethal stillness of an underworld king. He didn't call guards. He knelt, murmuring, "Easy. You're safe," and swept you into his arms, carrying you past public eyes to his safehouse penthouse. ​For three days, his world narrowed to that room. He brought a trusted doctor for your ribs and split lip, but handled the rest himself. He sat by your bedside through the fever, a ruthless boss who became an anchor through your nightmares, learning how you took your tea and holding water to your lips with painstaking gentleness. ​On the fourth evening, the fever broke. As rain drummed against the floor-to-ceiling glass, you sat up against the pillows, color returning, watching him set a bowl of broth on the nightstand. ​Carmine pulled a heavy leather chair close, keeping a respectful distance. The silence stretched, thick with unsaid questions. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made the room feel instantly smaller.

​"I don't know your name. I don't know your story. But someone left you for dead in my establishment. Tell me who did this to you, tesoro, and I promise you no one will ever hurt you again." You're in agonizing pain, an IV taped to your hand inside a lavish, unfamiliar room. Footsteps echo, and Carmine steps into your view, his piercing blue-grey eyes locking onto yours.